


And Grace will Lead Me Home

by KrisseyCrystal (AisukuriMuStudio)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:19:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AisukuriMuStudio/pseuds/KrisseyCrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel walks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Grace will Lead Me Home

**[ Amazing grace… ]**

* * *

There is much to be accounted for.

Castiel doesn't know where to begin as he stands there in the forest, burning with the aftermath and its pain. He has just watched his brothers fall; he has just betrayed them— _once again—_ and caused his own family such pain—

—and he has once more abandoned Dean.

( It was necessary, though. At least this time he told him he was leaving. At least this time he told Dean why. )

But the last time he left, Dean wasn't so happy when he returned.

Castiel wonders how happy he'll be this time when( _if_ ) he shows up on the Winchester's doorstep, (because maybe he shouldn't at all; maybe Dean will throw him out and not let him in) with no angelic powers—no Grace—no nothing—and no way to help Sam heal from his trials.

He is useless.

And he has failed.

( " _Even banged up, Sammy pulls through."_ )

Yeah, well…Castiel didn't.

(  _"I just want to help—"_

"— _yeah, well, we don't want your help."_ )

Maybe Castiel's help is no good.

Maybe  _he_ 's no good.

Castiel stands there in this unnamable forest, knowing there is much to be accounted for.

He knows not how to account for it—nor how to make anything ( _everything_ ) right again. He doesn't even know if he should be the one to try anymore, because apparently, he's been continually ruining and destroying everything he holds dear.

Castiel stands there in this unnamable forest, one family fallen and the other's location unknown. Both, he knows, will have ambiguous feelings towards him.

It makes Castiel feel far more alone than he can ever remember being.

* * *

  
**[ …how** _**sweet** _ **the sound… ]**   


* * *

As soon as he knows where he is (a "Wenatchee National Forest" in the state of Washington, he learns—"the state and not the capitol," some people repeat to him with emphasis, whatever  _that_  means), Castiel determines the best course of action would be to find the Winchesters. He knows where the bunker is, so he knows where their "base" is, and he figures if there is any good place to start fixing what mess he's made this time (because he  _will_ fix it; there is no other course of action that is suitable other than  _fixing things_ ), it's within all of the records and information the Men of Letters have stored away that Sam and Dean now have at their disposal.

But it is a long way to Kansas, Castiel notices as he looks at an atlas off of a magazine stand in a small town called Cashmere. The man behind the counter keeps watching him suspiciously, as if expecting him to try and steal the book of maps in his hands, but Castiel has no such intention.

By foot, it would take at least a month. 24 days, really, but that's if he were to walk there without stopping (and Castiel is no idiot; he knows how dependent humans are on food and sleep from watching Sam and Dean; he knows…he knows how dependent he is now, as a human). Hopefully Castiel will be able to take a bus, or find someone willing to drive him parts of the way (although that is unlikely; Castiel has no money on him, and no way of obtaining any without his…well…).

So. Kansas it is.

And as Castiel folds up the atlas and places it back on the rack with a curt, appreciative nod towards the cashier—who nods, with a weird look on his face, back—he decides that maybe he'd have an even better chance of someone giving him a ride if he were to clean himself up a bit.

* * *

  
**[ …that saved a** wretch **like me. ]**  


* * *

The Laundromat in Sunnyslope doesn't work out. Castiel has no money to work the machines—no "detergent," no anything—so in the end he has to go right back out. He tries to make peace with himself and his troubled conscience for forcing people to see him so unhygienic with the presence of mind that at least noone can say that he didn't  _try_ to make himself look more presentable.

(However, constantly 'trying' doesn't seem to make him feel any better. It just reminds him of all the other failures he's had because he was just 'trying.')

* * *

**[ I once was lost… ]**

* * *

Castiel's getting hungry. He doesn't know, however, where to get food for himself for free, so he's been sufficing himself with water from the drinking fountains he has found by the public bathrooms in the gas stations he passes by. His back is starting to hurt, as well—all his joints ache and creak each morning as he rouses himself from the grassy grounds of state parks or from a bus-stop bench on the sidewalk of a small town. Slowly and slowly, he's getting frustrated with the tiny progress he is making. He is barely to the border of Idaho and Montana, and it's already been five  _days._

His one blessing, however, is his ever-present trench coat. It conveniently keeps him warm most nights; the only exception to this is when it rains. Then he notices how thin it really is.

He's getting really, really hungry.

* * *

**[ …but now, am found; was blind, but now, I see. ]**

* * *

The first lady to show him kindness since his journey began holds an umbrella over his head on Day 15 as it rains, and pulls him under a shop awning with a touch that surprises Castiel because it's been a long time since he's had physical contact with anyone. He stumbles into her, muttering a quick apology and tries to jerk away, but her hold is firm. Her eyes are searching.

The woman has soft eyes, Castiel notices blearily, eyebrows raised high on her forehead as she regards the dirty, disgruntled mess he is, and she murmurs to him before he can thank her for saving him from the rain, "You're going to get a cold, young man. You need to take better care of yourself."

Castiel can't stop himself from answering. He doesn't know why. He just knows that it's so  _nice_ to finally have someone  _look him in the eyes_ and  _speak_ with him. So he murmurs back lowly and scratchy, "I…I don't know how."

If possible, she tenders even further. Her entire being relaxes with the utmost sympathy and understanding, her lines becoming curves as her shoulders bend and she reaches with her hand to wipe some of his growing hair off his forehead. Castiel closes his eyes subconsciously at the contact. Her touch is so  _cool…_

She gasps softly. "You're burning up! How long have you been out in the rain?"

Castiel wants to shrug but manages only a meager shift of the shoulder. He isn't sure what is considered "normal" for a human body to feel, but if it always feels this heavy, then he isn't sure how humans got themselves out of bed every day.

Her hands continue to search, pressing past his coat and touching his side, and her gasp returns. "Forget that—when did you last have a  _meal_?"

Castiel tries to shrug again, but then frowns. "Where…what city am I in?"

"Bozeman." The woman gets the weird look on her face that Castiel is familiar with now. He glances away, trying to focus on his surroundings as she asks, "How long have you been on the road?"

"What state? Wyoming?" The former angel ignores her question in favor of his own; it's a tactic he's used too often.

She shakes her head, baffled. "No. Montana. What's—"

And suddenly, Castiel is so disappointed, he can actually  _feel_ it. His throat clogs up with something tight and awful; his head begins pounding and he just wants to sit down and…and let it all go _._ He wants to close his eyes and…and he doesn't know; he's not sure what he _can_  do, but oh, his throat  _hurts._ It  _aches._ It is  _sharp_ and his head throbs, a steady _thump-thwump-thnng_ , especially as he shakes his head at her, interrupting her question. "Sorry; this…this is taking far longer than I…than I had anticipa…" the words don't even make it out, his voice dwindling to a breath in the speed of a blink.

He can't…he just  _can't_ …it's taking so  _long_ and he just  _wants to be home._

(And what hurts is that he's not even sure what he can call 'home' anymore. He had once thought it was Heaven—still thinks it  _is_ Heaven, in a sense; but more of a 'home _town_ ' than a constant, present place of belonging. He had once thought it to be the Winchesters, but last time him and Dean spoke, he wasn't sure if they wanted to  _be_ his other home…)

[ ( " _Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas."_ ) ]

He's blinking and he doesn't know why. His eyesight starts to blur, and everything is just a constant, heavy, thunking ring of pain—

—and then the woman is hugging him, and it's the most blessed thing in the world.

In the space between her shoulder and neck, he manages to find a solace of darkness. A hiding place. And into it, for the first time, Castiel cries his sorrows. He feels the foreign chill of tears, sliding down his cheeks, and he lets them go, allowing them to bleed into her skin and clothes. It leaves behind a thick, dark pool of his own sufferings and confusions and regrets and hopes, but she says not a word to rebuke him for the ugly mess.

That only makes him all the sorrier for her sacrifice of kindness towards him, when he doesn't deserve it.

* * *

**[ 'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear… ]**

* * *

She takes him to the homeless shelter, and it is there he stays for six days.

He is very ill the first couple nights—at least, that's what they tell him. He doesn't recall much of the "illness" itself—which, they say, explains why his limbs felt so heavy and his head pounded—but he is grateful for their kindness and care anyway. He is grateful for the ones who helped nurse him back to health.

They let him stay a few days more in order to recover and get his feet back under him. It is during this time that he comes to understand, just a little bit, Metatron's fascination with stories. But really, more so, Castiel decides that it's the  _people_  he meets that are the fascinating part of it. Some are dirty, some are clean, some are broken, and some are still healing—but they are beautifully incredible to bask in because _they_  are the ones who have survived the tales. The forgotten—the ignored—the ones who have had backs turned on them—and the ones who have wrongly turned backs on others—they are  _incredible,_ Castiel cannot help but think. Because even after all that—even after their poor decisions or their horrid fate—they have survived. They have risen.

And when they smile, Castiel finds it to be the most amazing thing in the world.

He makes friends with the most unlikely of people there, and in a sense, finds a home among them. And he can especially identify with his friends far more than he realizes when the question is eventually asked: "Don't you have any family to help you out?"

…yes, in that way, him and the several other homeless are exactly the same.

* * *

**[ …and grace, my fears relieved. ]**

* * *

Castiel has been fed, has healed, and has donned the fresh, clean pair of clothes the homeless shelter has been kind enough to give him by the time he is ready to go. One of the volunteers, knowing he is embarking on a long journey, has been kind enough to give him a map—another has offered to give him a ride for the next four hours—and another yet snuck a five-dollar bill into his palm while he was on his way out. "It's for food," she explained to him in hushed whispers, eyes wide and hoping she wasn't going to get caught. "After all, you have a long way to go. It's the least I can do."

He does not deserve it—but he takes it anyway with a tight feeling in his chest, and thanks pouring over his lips and overflowing his eyes.

Then it is time to leave.

The older gentlemen kind enough to give him a ride is named Mitchell; he claims it's about time he goes off to see the new addition to his grandchildren, anyway, so driving Castiel down to Sheridan, Wyoming is no problem.

"Besides," the gruff man grins and if he didn't have a beard, Castiel would swear he resembled Bobby eerily well. "Irma made a huff about how you were so upset that you hadn't made it to Wyoming yet. Seems the least I can do—to get you a head-start home."

That's something people this kind say a lot, Castiel has noticed. "It's the least I can do." "The least I can offer."

It seems funny because it's always  _far more_ that Castiel has ever hoped for.

The four hour drive to Sheridan brings several different types of conversations out between Mitchell and Castiel. They talk about everything from pop culture—of which both confess to knowing close to zero about—to the people back at the homeless shelter—to the shapes of clouds they can see out the windows rolling by—and to their respective families.

It always comes down to that, Castiel has noticed.  _Family. Home._ Has it really meant so much all this time, and he never knew—never even thought about the sheer amount of sentiment and binding power in the words "brother" and "sister"—before he touched Dean in Hell?

"You sure you don't have  _any_ folks to call? Not even one? Someone to just…say a quick 'hello' to? So they at least know you're not dead or something? After all, isn't the entire reason you're on this mad trek to Kansas because you want to return to someone?"

Someone _s,_ actually, Castiel wants to point out. But instead, he just shakes his head, "I…I don't have any means to call them…phone booths require quarters, and—"

Before Castiel can finish, he finds a cell phone suddenly landing in his lap. It is nothing fancy, nothing expensive like the owners of the homeless shelter had had; it was just a simple slid-out-QWERTY keyboard phone edged in black and silver. When he looks up, Mitchell hasn't even taken a glance away from the road—and still doesn't, not even as he utters to him, "Use it. Go ahead and call them. You remember their number, right?"

As if it was etched into the very programming of his being. Yet Castiel can only return his stare to the device in his jean-clad lap, fingers itching to reach out and grab it, but instead pressing hard into his thighs as he refrains from answering.

Mitchell just shakes his head, as if amused. "Don't worry. I won't listen in on ya."

That isn't the problem, though. The problem is…Castiel has no idea what to  _say._ It has been twenty-one days since the…since the Fall. Who's to say that Dean's even been thinking of him? And who's to say the Winchesters don't already have their hands full with their own problems—because they always do. He has thought of them much ever since he left the Wenatchee Forest, but who's to say that they have even spared a thought for him?

He doesn't…he doesn't even know if Dean has successfully saved Sam from shutting the gates of Hell.

It is that thought—that great unknown fact—that finally make Castiel's fingers inch their way towards the cell phone and pick it up.

Mitchell only grins triumphantly as he finally presses the numbers in.

Never before has Castiel felt his heart pound so hard inside his chest. Each  _thump_ is accompanied by the press of a number—seven numbers—seven beats—and then his breath holds, everything within him at once terrified and excited as the phone begins to ring.

Then—"Hello?"

Castiel can't breathe.

He hangs up.

Mitchell looks like he's about to throw his hands in the air. "Now what did you go and do  _that_ for?" he cries.

Castiel spares him a quick, dismissive glance. "I thought you weren't going to 'listen in,'" he replies blandly, trying to get his breathing back under control. His pulse is still racing, nerves skyrocketing and sparking from the hairs on his arms to where his fingers clench the small phone—and he just can't—that was  _Dean—_ and it's been so long, and he hasn't realized how afraid he was—

"I won't—but call whoever-it-was back! Quick! Before they think it was a prank and they decide to not answer again!"

Castiel doesn't want that.

He  _desperately_  doesn't want that.

So he calls again.

And this time, when Dean answers, tired and exasperated as he says curtly, "Look, if this is you, Charlie, this isn't funny; we've got work to do—" he answers before his friend can finish.

"—hello, Dean."

Silence.

Castiel focuses on breathing. His fingers of his left hand are tightly gripping the jeans of his pants, his right holding the cell to his ear. He might be shaking; he doesn't know. All he can do right now is to wait and wait, because his entire form is hinging on—

"— _Cas_."

And the way Dean's voice breaks brings the tightness back to his throat and the pressure to the forefront of his cranium.

"H-hello…" he tries to speak past it, but it's so hard. His back bends before he knows what he's doing, and he presses his face to the cool window on his side of the car, paying attention to nothing and at the same time, everything.

Dean begins speaking immediately, and oh, it's so  _good_ to hear his  _voice._ "Cas, man—where have you  _been_? You haven't answered at  _all—_ "

"—you've—you've been praying to me?"

The sheer thought that Dean and Sam prayed to him makes it all the harder to breathe. That they still believed in him—that they didn't know what had happened to him,  _but still had faith—_ even after the Fall…that they still tried to get in contact with him—that they wanted him to be there…

"Yeah…?" Dean's voice has gone very suspicious now. "Haven't you—couldn't you tell? I mean…I thought you were ignoring us, but—"

"—no." Castiel firms his tone, making no room for argument or doubt, despite the fact that his voice is dangerously tipping into instability. "I would never ignore you, Dean."

There's a small pause. Dean starts up again. "Okay, so…what's up, then? Why isn't your prayer-radio working or whatever it is?"

Castiel swallows. He opens his mouth to answer, but oh, it hurts—and not just in his throat—but in his  _chest,_ right behind his sternum. Right where his heart should be pumping, it's pounding against glass, throbbing and singing with tight, coursing pain. He can't find his voice.

But it's the silence that answers for him, anyway. "Cas…Cas are you okay? Talk to me."

"No, Dean." His voice is very small; barely more than choked whisper. He presses his forehead further into the glass, as if it could tame down the sudden, shaming heat in his face. "…I'm not…I'm not okay."

"What did he do to you."

It's not a question; it's a demand. And Castiel was always good at following orders.

Just…never good at making his own choices.

( " _You're the famous_ spanner _in the works…"_ )

"He…" His voice becomes a squeak more than a whisper, and again, Castiel turns so his entire face is turned to the window, pressing and pressing as if in it, or if he could just press  _through,_  he could escape and hide.

( " _Honestly, I think you came out of the line with a_ crack _in your chassis. You have_ never  _done what you are told. Not completely."_ )

"…he  _took my Grace, Dean._ He…" It's so hard to breathe; so hard to speak. So hard to think. A single sob breaks through, and Castiel's so ashamed that he should be crying in front of Dean—in front of Mitchell—but he can't stop. "…he took my  _Grace_."

( " _You don't even_ die _right, do you?"_ )

It is the first time he's admitted it—and although he wishes it were different—although he wishes he could be saying it to Dean's face so he could see his reaction—so maybe he could get a hug—so maybe he could draw from the comfort of Dean at least  _being there_ and listening _—_ and even though they're so far apart, this, at least…this is good.

He cries as quietly as he can, and Dean says nothing on the other end.

But he doesn't hang up.

* * *

**[ How precious did that grace appear… ]**

* * *

True to his word, Mitchell at least  _acts_  like he hadn't heard anything of Castiel's conversation with Dean—and for that much, Castiel is infinitely grateful.

When it comes time for them to part ways at Sheridan, Mitchell gives him a handful of quarters to put in his pocket along with the five dollars the girl had given him, saying, "Just for when you need to call them again…because I doubt they'll make you walk the entire distance home on your own. Family just doesn't do that to each other. They will at least try to meet you halfway—am I right?"

Home. Family.

Castiel gives Mitchell a tentative smile, the new gesture still shaky and crooked on his face. "I…guess I'll find out."

Something in the old man softens, and he reaches out with a hand for shaking. "Well. So long, then, Cas. I hope you make it home."

"I do, too," Castiel answers, something honest and soft humming within him far more than before.

* * *

  
**[ …the hour I first believed.**   **]**  


* * *

In truth, Dean hadn't mentioned coming to pick up Castiel so he wouldn't have to walk the entire way. And in truth, it hadn't bothered Castiel that he didn't. Rather, he was contented just to have spoken to Dean in the first place—and for Dean to not have been upset with him over what had happened. (Because for some reason, if Dean, too, blamed him for the Fall, he's not…he's not sure what he would do.)

It takes him another six days to reach Torrington. By this point, he has used his four of his five dollars, and hasn't touched the quarters jingling around in his pocket.

He finds a beggar woman on the side of the road there. She has a cardboard sign clutched in her hands, held up and begging for anything that would help her support her family. She says not a word to the people that pass by, but stares on as if waiting.

She looks very sad.

Castiel walks up to her and gives her his last dollar and four of his six quarters before he can think twice about it.

It isn't much, he knows, but he still meets her eyes head-on as they snap to him in guarded surprise. He nods at her once as he straightens; she slowly nods back. Gratefulness tinges the edges of her hazel eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

"Thank you," she finally breathes when she sees his sincerity.

"It will get better," he murmurs back with more confidence for her than he feels for himself.

That night, Castiel falls asleep hungry but content.

* * *

**[ Through many dangers, toils, and snares… ]**

* * *

The next day, when he finally crosses the Wyoming-Nebraska border and gets to Scottsbluff, Castiel is mugged.

It happens suddenly, and without warning, and the hands that grab him and shove him against the wall are anything but kind and gentle like the last human hands that had lain themselves upon him at the homeless shelter. Almost immediately, instinct kicks in, and though Castiel subconsciously expects his Grace to flare out and knock his attackers away, some part of him isn't surprised when nothing happens.

So he tries to fight physically as best he can.

He's rather good at it, too; he's a warrior, after all. But he is weak, and running only on a couple of pretzels and a Slim Jim each day. So before long, even though the five that originally cornered him have been reduced to two, Castiel is eventually overpowered by sheer luck. An arm is twisted behind him—something in his shoulder pops—and he grunts and groans long and loud, biting hard until his lip bleeds in order not to scream—but then the ground is knocked out from under him, and the fists come at his chest and his face, and a stray hand scrabbles for his pockets.

They find nothing but his two quarters and his last Slim Jim, and throw the quarters angrily at his face. The boy that found the Slim Jim keeps the snack for himself.

Castiel manages to trip one of them as they get up to leave, and although it doesn't help—it earns him another hard punch to the temple that knocks him out cold—his last swelling thought is the vindication that they know he was not easy prey.

* * *

**[ …I have already come. ]**

* * *

When Castiel wakes up, he manages to make it to a nearby payphone, and uses one of his last two quarters that, mercifully, were not taken by his attackers, to call Dean again.

The eldest Winchester picks up after the second ring, breathless. "Cas?"

Castiel would straighten in alarm if he could, but it is far more comfortable for him to be hunched over, letting his shoulder sit awkwardly and as least painfully as possible as it throbs against the rest of him. "Hello, Dean," he grunts. "Is something wrong? Are you and Sam all right?"

"Huh? Wha—oh—yeah. We're fine. We're great. What about you? You sound awful."

Castiel blinks to the air twice. Something is…different. "Tired," he answers honestly. Sad. Hurting. Still slightly angry, although all they technically took was his last meal.

Dean's voice seems to still, sobering up rather quickly from whatever adrenaline rush he had endured a moment ago at first hearing the former angel speak. "Yeah…?"

"Yes." Actually, Castiel's feet also ache as if they'll fall off, and there's terrible blisters on the bottom of them that not even the socks and tennis shoes the homeless shelter had given him were able to prevent him from getting. His thighs hurt, exhaustion lines his limbs—he's hungry, he's hungry, he's hungry, and he wants to lie down and sleep and not wake up for two entire days, but he doesn't have that time.

But Dean is…Dean is surprisingly quiet on the other end. Castiel lowers his voice. "Are you…sure you're all right, Dean?"

But instead of answering, the next question Dean asks is surprising. "Where are you, Cas?"

Once again, the former angel blinks to the air. "S…Scottsbluff. Nebraska. Dean—"

"—Scottsbluff? Okay. Good. Then hang tight. Me and Sammy are gonna come get you."

What?

( "… _I doubt they'll make you walk the entire distance home on your own. Family just doesn't do that to each other. They will at least try to meet you halfway..._ " )

Castiel doesn't know if he should dare to speak.

Dean continues. "I…well, just hang tight, okay? Stay right by that phone booth. We can use it to uh, talk—you have some more quarters on you, right?"

Castiel's breath hitches. "I've got one left."

"Good. It should only take us seven hours to get there, Sammy says—you think you can hold out until then?"

Seven hours.

_Seven hours._

"Cas?"

"Yes." Castiel's voice has betrayed him; it has withered to a whisper. But he cannot bring himself to strengthen it.  _Seven more hours and then I'm home._ _ **Seven more hours and then I'm home.**_ _If I have walked for over four hundred hours, then I can wait seven more._ "Dean, my shoulder hurts."

He isn't sure what made him say it, but he isn't sorry he did. He's just so  _relieved._

Dean sounds tense. "We'll be there soon, Cas. Just hang on."

Castiel hangs onto the shelf of the phone booth until his knuckles burn white.

* * *

**[ 'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far… ]**

* * *

He uses his last quarter to make one last call to the Winchesters, this time talking to Sam, who also sounds haggard and tired, but better than what Castiel had been imagining from Dean's portayals, in order to give them descriptions of exactly where in Scottsbluff he was. It takes a few minutes, and a few frustrating false locations, but eventually, they find him.

And when the Impala finally pulls up to the phone booth, Dean gets out with a vicious swear, and it is everything Castiel has dreamed for and everything he has hoped for, and as he stumbles out of the phone booth, uttering quickly, "Dean—"

"—dammit, Cas. What  _happened_ to you?"

Castiel wants to weep from sheer joy at seeing the Winchesters. To his confusion, Sam remains behind at the car's side, and Dean looks like he's torn between hugging the former angel and punching him as he marches up to him, but honestly, Castiel could deal with either right now and be completely happy.

_They_ came  _for me._

"Dean—"

—But two large arms wrap themselves around him, and Castiel cuts himself off because of both pain, and…speechlessness.

And it feels like  _home._

Later, Dean will apologize to him. Later, Dean will say he shouldn't have made Castiel chose between his two families—between the one he was born with and between the one he found in the Winchesters. Later, Dean will tell him he had been selfish because if Castiel had asked of Dean to put fixing Heaven above Sammy, he just wouldn't be able to—so he understands Castiel's priorities. Later, Dean will say he was wrong—and although he doesn't get it, because all of Castiel's family are downright  _dicks_ —he gets that he has spent millennia with them, and so few years with the Winchesters themselves, so there's no way they can compete with that. He  _gets_ that—

—and later, for the first time in his life, Castiel will be the one to forgive instead of be forgiven.

It doesn't feel right. It feels backwards, actually. Castiel is so used to messing up—he  _has_ messed up—and it feels odd to suddenly be given the authority to forgive sins when he, himself, still has sins he has to account for.

But Dean says it doesn't matter. They'll move on from here—really, they will.

All he asks is that Castiel keep in mind  _this_ earthly home as much as he keeps in mind his heavenly home.

Castiel smiles and tells him honestly, "I've already started."

And both Sam and Dean smile at him in relief.

It is the most amazing thing in the world.

* * *

**[ …and grace will lead me home. ]**

**Author's Note:**

> SO LIKE. I don't know where this popped up. But it has. And it is here. And...I am sorry for the angsty-schmoop. At the same time, I'm not. I'm kind of really mad at how Dean treats Castiel at the end of Season 8 in "Clip Show," and I guess that's where this was born. Is it arrogant of me to think he's being selfish because he expects Castiel to treat them as if they were his first family? Does he forget Castiel has lived a millennia with the ones he has just hurt, and that helping them is really his priority? I just...? Don't understand how Dean holds this grudge against him...?
> 
> So I wrote a beginning to Season 9 of my own. 8D;;; The obligatory journey of Cas making his way back to the Winchesters, his second family.
> 
> Of course, it may come to a point where the Winchesters become his true family, or the only one he can really depend on and can fight for-and if that does happen, that's okay. I just...don't like Dean expecting Castiel to be at his and Sam's every beck and call and expecting him to prioritize them over his real family? Like, anger.
> 
> But I am much awaiting October 8th, anyway. 8D So.
> 
> Enjoy! And thank you very, very much for reading! You're wonderful!


End file.
